


Singing In The Rain

by MistressSiM



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Post SH3, Post canon, attempt number five hundred thousand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:13:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressSiM/pseuds/MistressSiM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Idunno, don’tcha think blondes have more fun?” </p><p>**</p><p>Six months later, Cheryl cuts the blond ends that represent Heather off into the sink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zero

**Author's Note:**

> This is self-beta'd. I tried to weed out all of the mistakes multiple times, but there are probably still a few. Don't be hesitant to point them out to me, and I'll fix it as soon as I can manage.  
> I've been wanting to write something like this for years. Every time I tried, I always felt like it just wasn't good enough.  
> This is my final attempt. Comments would be appreciated! More will be up soon.

Silent Hill: Singing In The Rain

A close-quarters character study of Heather—Cheryl, now—post SH3 and an original character of mine, who is a survivor who got out at around the same time as her. 

 

_I’m singing in the rain_

_Just singing in the rain_

_What a glorious feeling_

_I’m happy again_

_I’m laughing at clouds_

_So dark up above…_

 

0.

 

_“Idunno, don’tcha think blondes have more fun?”_

_**_

Six months later, Cheryl cuts the blond ends that represent Heather off into the sink.

_**_

She decides to officially going by Cheryl again after she makes that face in the mirror. She told Douglas to call her Cheryl as an expression of gratitude, but has still been introducing herself to others as Heather, has still been thinking of herself as Heather. 

The look changes all of that. 

It is familiar, the exact same expression her dad made when he was that odd hybrid of confused and disgruntled, mouth pulled into a scowl, one eyebrow raised and the other furrowed. 

Aloud, she says, her face stilled pulled into this goofy expression that does not belong to her, 

“I yelled at you for calling me Cheryl. You kept slipping up, even though Heather was your idea.”

_**_

If Douglas notices the changes, he says nothing. He is there when she needs him and out of her way when she doesn’t think of him. They collected her things as soon as they could after they were out of dodge,  and it was a done deal, she’s staying with Douglas until she finishes High School in t-minus two months. It feels odd, going about life as if nothing has changed, as if she hadn’t gone through hell and lost the one person she loved along the way. 

Douglas is nothing like her dad, who was both mother and father to her, gentle and loving and protective.  
 _Her dad could cook._ The thought abruptly consumes her thoughts as she heats up yet another bland pasta dinner. Her stomach growls angrily at her. She can smell his signature lasagna, filled with supple cheeses and slightly sweet tomato sauce, lacking any kind of meat. She’s never been one for meat. 

She laments for a moment her failure to learn from him. 

_Why did he have to die?_

“He was a pagan,” She whispers to herself. The microwave releases an obnoxious shriek. “He spit in the face of God.” 

_**_

Cheryl ( _Heather_ , something hisses), looks at herself in the mirror. Staring at her reflection makes her feel unreal somehow, makes her skin crawl white hot and itchy. 

“I  am a pagan,” Her reflection declares, “I spit in the face of God.” 

Cheryl laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs, until her stomach is contracting with pain.  
Her reflection stares at her, stony-faced and unblinking. 

“You _are_ God,” She finally replies. 

_**_

Later she thinks to herself that Cheryl-Alessa is a mouthful, but it has a nice ring to it and tastes pleasant, doesn’t taste like heat and tears and blood like _just Alessa_ does.  

 _Just Alessa_ sparks memories within her, hazy and distant, and stark, new. She slides into the uncomfortable spare bed Douglas has granted her. She pulls the comforters over her head, and closes her eys. 

It has been years since she left Silent Hill; she thinks, it has been decades. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She whistles and she walks and she does not think.

It'd taken months of absentminded practice for Cheryl to learn how to whistle.

It wasn't really something she'd learned out of any desire to get better at it—It was something to pass the time with. After she'd read all her books cover to cover until their spines were loose, after she'd written enough macabre poems in her notebooks for even the margins to be filled, she whistled. She whistled on the rare occasion when her dad left her to her own devices, usually scouting out the area, sometimes looking at houses, while she stayed locked relatively safely away in a hotel. She found herself doing it one day, and from then on, she whistled when her mind was blank and her hands were empty.

**

Cheryl whistles on her way to her new school. It's only halfway reminiscent of the melody she's thinking of. It had gotten her through rough days in unfamiliar towns filled with unfamiliar people that she didn't dare interact with, for fear of inciting her dad's worry-induced wrath. She's been restlessly exploring Douglas' hometown, which is only just large and industrial enough to count as a medium-sized city. She likes its hardy concrete boxiness, the precisely planned streets that signify its status as a New England town. It smells of busy, vaguely detached people and greasy food, all hidden under a hint of saltiness from the nearby coast. She likes it here. She likes the anonymity she has here.

It's weird, being on her own without having her head filled with careful instructions.

_Don't speak to strangers. If you feel like you're being followed, find a place with lots of people, call me, and stay there. Go straight to school and back. I love you. I love you. I love you. Be safe. I love you._

("You watch yourself out there," Douglas had said.)

Te way to the school is already ingrained into her mind. Her feet know the way. She doesn't truly know where she's going. She whistles and she walks and she does not think.

**

Cheryl wonders how Douglas got her registered, or where he found enough information to even do so. The secretary at the front desk eyes her unabashedly, but says nothing beyond a heavily accented variant of the same welcome-to-your-new-school greeting she's received almost her whole life. Her smile is forced, plastic. She smells strongly of perfume and old stationery. Her eyes—wide and genuinely kind, if tired—are prematurely lined with stress. When she talks, her whole face is animate with the last hurrah of what probably used to be youthful effort. Her nametage reads "KIRA DAVIDSON". 

Cheryl would bet money that Kira Davidson expected more out of life.

"Your guidance counselor will show you to your first class. I'll call him up here."

Why is she even trying? She could leave right now. Douglas probably wouldn't do a thing. He rewards lightly around her. He may even be the slightest bit fearful of her. 

Cheryl gives Kira a small smile. "Okay," She says.

 _Okay._ She means it.

She doesn't want to leave. She needs the distraction. She needs something to pull her away from the sadness that grips at her heart with ugly, gnarled fingers.

_Okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost abandoned this story. It was a very near thing.
> 
> Feedback is very much appreciated!


End file.
